


relieve

by epsiloneridani



Category: Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, PTSD, mentions of augmentations/medical trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 18:13:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17986166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epsiloneridani/pseuds/epsiloneridani
Summary: “Thank you.”“You don’t have to thank me.”Jun drops his head into his hands and drags his fingernails across his scalp. “No,” he says, voice muffled, “I do.”“You don’t owe me anything.”“You saved my life,” Jun offers quietly. “Of course I owe you.”—-Reach's first anniversary. Jun and Musa talk.





	relieve

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: PTSD, mentions of augmentations/medical trauma

“You’ve done enough.”

Jun blinks like he hasn’t heard him. The data-padd’s all but falling out of his hands and he jolts and clutches at it. “I have to finish this,” he mumbles, tapping mindlessly at one key on the screen. “It’s almost done.”

Musa raises an eyebrow at him. “It’s a long trip,” he points out. “You have plenty of time.”

Jun rolls his eyes but he’s blinking to keep his head upright.

“Get some rest,” Musa says. “You look like you could use it.”

Jun scoffs at him but accedes, setting the data-padd aside, folding his arms, and propping himself back like he actually plans on being able to sleep. It’d be impressive if he did, Musa decides. Public transportation isn’t the most comfortable way to travel across a city, let alone a planet, and the high speed rail rattles enough to make Musa wonder at its maintenance schedule.

“How long?” Jun asks.

“Eight hours.” Assuming the rail doesn’t break down.

“Damned storm.”

The electrical storms make flying impossible so they built specialized subway systems underground to carry supplies and personnel. Which would be well and fine if it didn’t take forever to get anywhere. Of course one of their candidates is assigned to a research station here.

Of course it’s the one time he couldn’t send just Jun.

“Regret it yet?” Jun asks without opening his eyes.

Like he read his mind. No matter how many times he does that, Musa never fails to find it uncanny. “Not if he’s as good as they say.”

“You’re brooding.”

“You’re supposed to be resting.”

Jun snorts half a laugh.

The train shudders; his spine spasms. It comes out harsher than he means it to.

“ _Rest._ ”

Jun blinks at him.

“Rest,” Musa repeats, strained. The augmentations played hell with his nerves, condemned him to a constant ache in his lower back. It’s manageable with therapy and medication, not that he thinks he should need either of them.

Soldier. Spartan.

Jun procures a plastic bag from his pocket and tosses it to him. “You forgot those,” he says. “Thought you were supposed to take them every day.”

“These were in my desk.”

“Were.”

“I don’t need–”

Jun’s staring at him again, not accusing, just waiting. “I’ll make you a deal,” he says. “You take your meds, I’ll take a nap.”

That would involve shutting the hell up for longer than ten seconds. Musa quirks an eyebrow. “Am I really supposed to believe that?”

“I’m a man of my word.”

He’s not wrong there. Musa sighs and downs the pills. Jun waits a moment more and then settles back in and shuts his eyes. It doesn’t take him long to drop off and for a while Musa dares hope he might sleep peacefully, might pass out for seven hours and sweep away the dark circles carved beneath his eyes and the blood shot through them.

He deserves that much, today of all days.

An hour in and the peace shatters and he’s restless, restless. He breathes like he’s suffocating, heaving for air, heaving for life, tormented and tensing and twitching like he’s trying not to thrash around. Musa hesitates and then carefully wheels over and eases himself onto the seat beside him.

“You’re safe,” Musa offers quietly. Jun’s eyes are squeezed shut, streaming silent tears, and Musa rests a careful arm around his shoulders, pulls him closer and lets his head rest on his shoulder. Like Jorge. Like Jorge did for so many of them. Like Jorge did for him after the augmentations failed and he woke up in screaming pain and they told him he couldn’t fight and he forgot how to breathe.

“You’re all right,” Musa says, a whisper, an echo. Jun shivers and Musa presses a hand to his crown and holds. Steady. Steady. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”

Some of the tension corded through the sniper’s shoulders eases. Jun mumbles in his sleep and huddles closer, curling up into a ball pressed against his side.

He doesn’t move for five hours.

Jun doesn’t blink awake, doesn’t jolt upright, but Musa knows he’s conscious again by the way he coils, coils: foggy, confused.

“It’s just me, Jun.”

Jun snorts softly but stays put. “Who the hell else would it be?”

Musa rolls his eyes. “Sleep well?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, thinking maybe. “Yes,” he says, like he’s surprised, like he doesn’t know how to process it. “For once.”

Jun’s file calls him a loner by nature. Musa’s not sure he believes it. “Good.”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

Jun shrugs away, dropping his head into his hands and dragging his fingernails across his scalp. “No,” he says, voice muffled, “I do.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“You saved my life,” Jun offers quietly. “Of course I owe you.”

“Where’s all of this coming from?” Musa asks, half bemused. “You should be rested by now.”

“I am,” Jun shoots back, and there’s a flicker of annoyance in his voice before he sweeps it away. He winds his hands together and twists, twists. Musa grimaces and glances pointedly and he stops.

It’s silent for a beat.

“Why’d you do it?” Jun lifts his head to meet his eyes. “It could have jeopardized your project.”

Ranking member of ONI or not, he only had so much clout to throw around. Musa stares at him. Why?  _Why?_  Because it was right. Because for years he was forced to sit back and watch while Ackerson sent hundreds upon hundreds to die, while Ackerson wasted Spartan lives.

“Because twenty-eight years ago they told me I couldn’t fight.”

Jun quirks an eyebrow, opens his mouth like he’s going to say something then shuts it again with a smirk and a shake of the head.

“What?”

“I’m just trying to imagine anyone telling you what to do.”

Musa scoffs. “I had superiors once.”

“Doesn’t Osman still outrank you?”

Musa rolls his eyes and Jun’s smirk blooms into a grin. “Different branches,” Musa says, fighting not to grit his teeth. “She’s not my superior.”

“Technically? Or actually?”

“Why don’t you finish that report?”

Jun glances at the long-abandoned data-padd with an air of disgust but picks it up nonetheless. For a few minutes there’s only the tap of the stylus.

Then it stops.

“If they’d redeployed me right after Reach I would be dead.”

“I know.”

Jun’s gaze is locked on the screen, even if he’s not really seeing it. “A year ago today,” he says, and coughs to clear his throat. “It feels longer.”

Of course it does. It always will. If Musa closes his eyes he can’t remember what his squad was like, can’t remember their voices or their smiles.

“I know why you came along, you know.”

Musa blinks. “Do you?”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Just take my damn gratitude, Musa.”

“Finish your report and I’ll consider it.”

Jun shakes his head, drumming the stylus on the ‘padd. For a moment Musa’s sure he’ll fight him on it but he doesn’t, just stares at his hands for a moment and then lifts his eyes.

“Thank you,” Jun repeats quietly, “for fighting. For all of us.”

“I’m only sorry I couldn’t do more.”

Jun’s smile drops away. He seethes raw sincerity – rare for him. For any of them.

“Musa,” he says, “you’ve done more than enough.”

—-


End file.
